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Wednesday, February 1

Charlie and the Juice Cups

I know.

I have always been very tight lipped when it comes to talking about s.e.x. on this blog. (And that statement right there is a joke unto itself.)

Today, like all of my best intentions, I am going to have to skip my usual protocol and just talk about the heart of the matter. Because according to my facebook poll last night, people don’t care if it’s something that could happen to them or not.

Nope. They just want to hear the story.

And this story is about kittens.

Kittens to 11.

And if you are squeamish, this is your warning.

STOP READING NOW. I MEAN IT.

Just walk away and imagine I talked about inner strength or ditching my love affair of oreos or something.

So, the fun fact about trying to conceive is that there is no shortage of odd and wacky advice about HOW to get preggers. Move your bed to a south facing wall. Check your cervical mucus for consistency and color. Or, try some (what I have affectionally dubbed) JUICE CUPS.

These juice cups are the same concept as another product I once used and blogged about, which I will never name or talk about again, because there was a woman who called me from their company and proved that she was the mean product nazi and made me cry, then asked me to change some parts of the story so they could use it as something funny to share on their website. (First of all, if you want to use my stuff, don’t ask me to change the story to make your product look superior and me look incompetent. I can do that just fine without assistance. Second of all, you have no right to be uppity about your product- especially because if I use crayons and color in the vague drawings you provided on your instruction manual, it would be porn. All women have the inherent right to complain and joke about menstruation “aides.” It’s our only added bonus to the monthly terror that happens to our abdomens.) (Stepping off of my soap box now)

Back to the juice cups.

Here’s what they are.

Now, how in the world do you use these to assist with trying to get knocked up?

According to the world wide interwebs, you insert the juice cups after “copulation” to keep the semen closer to the cervix. It’s kinda like playing tag but the person who is IT gets to take a 3 minute head start to catch you. You can then leave them in for 12 hours to insure that the ones playing tag have a successful game.

Now, when it comes to all things girly, I have long felt I was a complete expert. Only because I have learned the hard way how NOT to use certain products. When it comes to new items, I always feel I learned enough from my last disaster to be wise with the new.

This is a fatal flaw that I have dealt with my entire life.

So I dutifully put the box of juice cups next to our bed, ready to use at the right time.

And according to the ovulation predictor, the right time was the other night.

So, after the kids were all tucked in bed and sleeping like rocks, Matt and I snuck away into the safety of our locked tight bedroom for some kittens.

The deed was done (and fun…), and it was time for the juice cups.

I wisely positioned myself into a quazi – headstand on the bed, and grabbed the box. They weren’t opened. Probably should have done that earlier. I opened the box and pulled out the product. Unwrapping it carefully, I looked at it. There is not an easy way to tell which side is up and which side is down. Especially since I was kinda doing a headstand.

Matt, being the amazing husband he is, was trying to decide if he wanted to watch this unfold, or if he wanted to look away. He did a little of both, as you will see.

I determined that I had the correct side upside down, to match my own position, and began to put it in. But it wasn’t easily gliding in to the correct positioning. Something wasn’t right. The plastic-ey bag part started to puff up inside. What the heck was going on?

I made the split second decision to pull it out and try again. Except this time, I was going to stand up and do it.

So I pulled out the juice cup, and rolled over so I could stand.

And THAT was when the air up there started escaping.

There is nothing sexier than a woman quaiffing as she rolls out of bed.

At this point, Matt is trying very hard to hide the giggles he’s got. I believe he had one eye peering out from the covers, watching me from behind tears of muffled laughter, cause this moment was comedy gold.

But funny or not, the clock was ticking, and I was going to get that juice cup where it needed to be.

So there I was, standing with one leg cocked up to Sunday, and the other balancing me on the floor (thank heavens for yoga) and a slippery juice cup in my hand. (You might need to Clorox the eyes of your brain after reading this. My apologies.) And I’m pretty sure I was making that face Michael Jordan made when he was up in the air ready to make a slam dunk.

CONCENTRATE, CHARLIE, CONCENTRATE!

But the harder I concentrated, the tighter my grip would get on the slippery juice cup. And because we all know you cannot tightly hold a slippery fish, the thing started to pop out of my hands.

By this point, Matt was totally engrossed in the mayhem going on, and he felt he needed to step in and give me some encouragement.

“Oh my gosh, DON’T WASTE IT!”

Helpful, oh love of my life, that was so very helpful.

Quickly, I caught the cup before it landed on the floor, changed the leg position because the one I was standing on was getting numb, and I jammed the juice cup in before it had a chance to pop out of my hands again.

SUCCESS!

And a blog post.

I got a two for one deal.

So fingers crossed this works. And in the mean time, I’m going to practice with the juice cups again at a later less crucial time. Just in case this wasn’t our month. And I have to do this again.

As a woman who learned to use a diaphram in the EarthMother embracing, hormone-free, pre-AIDS, fast & free 70's, I have NO trouble imagining how this played out at all!!! Sounds like just as reasonable a way to help keep the swimmers in the pool as it was to keep them out...